(7-syllable terza rima)

Greeting veiled strangers through glass

Little eye speaks words from paths

Traveled sometime in the past

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By fingertips achievement

We have resolved bereavement

While tempting God’s vehement

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A chance to reanimate

A soul gone to germinate

Not equipped to incarnate

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A move ‘Yes’ to then swift ‘No’

Good odds to apprehend hope

Of conscious beyond our bones

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Bridge to a distant era

Via pine planchette antenna

Grief leaves a stain like henna

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A quick extinguish of wick

The living feels it’s a trick

But the dead just feel homesick